The Good Ones
by sneauxfo
Summary: Rhodes has always been the one in a relationship who pines. Rholiday.


**Title-** The Good Ones

**Summary-** Rhodes has always been the one in a relationship who pines. Rholiday. Based off 'Gravity'.

**01110010**

Margarette from the pub doesn't call back.

_The good ones never do,_ Rhodes remembers her mother telling her, very long ago when Rhodes was still a teen, all wiry arms and tear-stained face, and utterly devastated over her first broken heart. The mantra made sense back then, and now that she's a grown woman, she has a good share of more broken hearts to back it up further. What she never understood was how her mother would always laugh as she spoke it. And every time it occurred, Rhodes had been too sour to ask.

She doesn't exactly count herself a romantic. In the field of science, not very many are. Instead, they are work-oriented, straight forward, and viciously competitive. As the head of nanite research for Providence's UK branch, Rhodes is no different.

At the same time, she's guilty of daydreaming more often than she likes to admit, and luckily, has the smarts and degrees to have her colleagues overlook her air-headed tendencies and not question her credibility in the workplace. She has weakness for candlelit dinners, interlaced fingers, and sharing straws. And every Valentines Day, she still fantasises about finding flowers on her desk, from a secret admirer.

But she at least acknowledges she's being silly, especially at her age.

**01101000**

Rhodes has a tendency to let paperwork build up at her desk. There will be towers of unorganised reports, spreadsheets, letters, and otherwise in ever-growing stacks until she takes notice and begins sheepishly relocating it all back to her room to put it all into useful order.

Routine has made her less practical, though, and she doubles up the load by the third trip- tries to finish the large remainder in one big haul that she can't even see over the top of.

That's when it happens.

"Oh!"

Rhodes echoes the interjection and stumbles back, swaying sympathetically as the tall stack of papers and folders on her arms tilts dangerously.

"I'm so sorry!" Rhodes exclaims, caught off guard. Her coworkers normally allow her a lot of moving room when they see her cleaning out her workspace.

"Isn't there a smarter way to do this?" asks the woman she bumped into, and sounds chiding and amused at the same time. She has a Columbian accent. "Here, let me help."

Before Rhodes can say otherwise, about half the stack is lifted.

"Thank you, but-" The words evanesce on Rhodes's tongue. She's seen pretty faces before, but…. But.

The pretty stranger nods and shrugs her way. "I'll just follow you then."

Rhodes shuts her own open mouth abruptly and mumbles something unintelligible before shutting it again and leading the way to her room in silence.

"Doctor Holiday of the US division," the woman remarks politely. "You can say I'm here on a quick errand run. I'm actually waiting on transport right now."

"Oh, I- excuse me- I'm not normally-" Rhodes stammers. And she just wants the wall to absorb her now, please. "I'm Doctor Rhodes. Er, of this division. For the UK, that is."

Doctor Holiday is tactful, though. "It's a pleasure." She's the one who carries the conversation, artful like a composer. Coaxes answers easily, and lulls into quiet rather than letting it dead-end.

Holiday turns out to be the head doctor at the US base, and more than deserving of the rank. Beautiful, smart, and edgy even, as Rhodes finds out, the way the woman will take passion in certain topics.

"This is incredible work," Holiday murmurs.

This is when she's sitting on the bed, glancing through one of Rhodes's research analyses. When Rhodes has gotten a better hold on herself and is able to speak full sentences.

And Rhodes feels her spirits soar at the compliment. "It's really nothing. That one came about by accident practically."

"Oh." Holiday's tone suddenly becomes blank of all emotion as she looks over another report. "You believe that viruses constitute as living."

But Rhodes knows that passive strategy, though. "Yes," she answers resolutely. "I do."

She's not exactly sure how a heated debate about microorganisms ("small infectious agents" insists Holiday) leads to having sex. Or maybe the debate is the start of the sex, in truth- the way they go back and forth on ideas and points, and even stooping to jibes only to fluster the other.

Rhodes knows the line between verbal and physical gets crossed with an impulse on her part- Holiday collecting herself and concluding her last point, and Rhodes pressing their lips together with all the think-through of a four-year-old.

In a film, that kind of thing would surely lead to a love scene- for the purpose of showing the two characters involved are meant to be. But this is reality, and Rhodes is no fatalist. Something like this warrants a slap in the face. She braces for it, when she feels Holiday freeze in place. And instead, she finds herself pressed down into the mattress with surprising strength, as Holiday completely takes charge as if she'd planned it all along.

Skin on skin turns to sweat and heat and wetness, and Holiday moaning low and sultry, and Rhodes gasping and clutching. It occurs to Rhodes, in a weird detached sort of way since she's so far gone and tossing back into pillows and attraction and abandon, that this had been too easy. Too lucky. Too perfect.

There's a hand kneading one of her breasts, a mouth on the other, and a second hand- yes, yes, please, like _that_- below. And it also occurs to Rhodes that this might be her cinematic romance, her meant-to-be.

**01101111**

Holiday has a shuttle to catch and Rhodes still has work to do.

They prepare themselves for public decency with an air of mutual professionalism, an understanding there, and Rhodes has forgotten all the names of all the others she's shared a bed with. She keeps interrupting Holiday as the other woman redresses, kisses her lips and cheeks and down her neck, skimming her hands over skin still bare.

And Holiday just returns each gesture, accepts her as if she understands all too well; Rhodes doesn't think too much on this until later on, though.

"My number's in the company directory," Rhodes says once they're in the hall, before she goes down one direction, and Holiday goes down the other. She tries as best she can to sound casual about it, and not as if she desperately wants more. "You can call me."

Holiday smiles a friendly smile, green eyes glinting. "Of course."

And doesn't.

**01101100**

Rhodes's mother laughs. It's over the phone, and over something completely unrelated. But it makes Rhodes angry enough to hang up on her anyway.

**01101001**

It's a couple years later when there's word of a team being assembled to construct a decontanimative nanite in one of the space stations. Heading the operation is none other than Doctor Holiday. Rhodes applies. Convinces herself that she does have a few lines of code she believes will be helpful in the experiment, and that it's not just because her heart sings at the thought of being able to see a one-afternoon stand again.

And still, when she's accepted into the operation with no preliminary interview, she can't help but feel cheapened. (Can't help but feel special.)

The main base in the States is much larger than the UK design. Holiday can be found in her office, looking positively regal and every bit as gorgeous as the first day. She might as well have been a painting.

"Long time no see," speaks the painting, ever the bureaucrat.

"It is," Rhodes agrees. Then asks, "Why did you select me?"

The change in Holiday's demeanor is slight, but Rhodes notices. "Any department head with a free schedule was practically guaranteed an in," Holiday states, her expression carefully blank, and her tone even. "And besides, I'm already familiar with the work you've done for Providence. Back then, you were a competitive asset. Scientists like that only advance. I felt confident that you're more than qualified for this team."

"I see." Rhodes allows the detracting praise to glance off. She mirrors Holiday's precaution, giving nothing of herself away. Although what she says next throws it to the wind. "I was only wondering if you had interviewed Bouvier and Volkov in similar fashion."

Holiday's features harden at this and her grip twitches on the pen she holds. "Doctor Rhodes, if you're dissatisfied with your placement, I can just as easily revoke my decision."

"I'm not dissatisfied," Rhodes lets her know, in a quieter, meeker voice. She knows she went completely over the line. "Just curious." Jilted, more like.

Together, they cast such a stark juxtaposition, she realises. Fierce versus timid, vibrant versus wilting. Holiday's supremacy in everything- and it was just a stupid idea to come here and do this and apply for this mission, and to ever even _think_ they might… Stupid, stupid.

"Much obliged for your time," Rhodes mumbles and makes a beeline for the door.

She hears the footsteps, but never expects a hand clasping onto her wrist and twirling her around.

Holiday's the one who starts it this time, pinning Rhodes back against the door and opening her mouth with a fast tongue. Rhodes's knees almost buckle at the recall of exactly what that same tongue is capable of. It's like a glass of water after days of being parched- she can't stop herself. Doesn't even think to. And Holiday is the one to end it, looking frustrated.

"I'm sorry." Her fingers tighten accordingly on Rhodes's shoulders as she shakes her head. "I don't want you to get the wrong idea."

"Yes," Rhodes huffs and resists rolling her eyes. "Snogging me was the first logical course of action to clear that up."

The other woman looks her in the eye guiltily. Determined, Rhodes tugs her in, bring their mouths back together because it can't be coincidence that they fit so well. Holiday isn't the only one who knows how to take control. And Rhodes wants to prove herself. She guesses this can be Part Two of her interview, an update to her last audition. If not for the space mission, then to show exactly why she's worth a phone call.

Holiday breaks away for breath and looks at her, like she knows what's going through her head.

Then catches her off-guard with fingers that slot tactfully between Rhodes's legs, when Rhodes hadn't even noticed it had slid under her skirt. They're both on the floor before Rhodes ever wonders if this is a good idea at all.

**01100100**

Rhodes phones her family the night before lift-off.

Her mother is unsurprisingly disgruntled at the fact that Rhodes won't be able to call while on her 'business trip'.

"And here I thought they'd have put phone towers everywhere by now," she grumbles to her daughter. "Technology: it boasts about having gotten so far, then consistently falls short."

They've been close since always, and she'd tell her mum anything and everything- up until she started working for Providence. That aspect of her life is something her mum remains clueless about, like everyone else in her family. As far as they know, Rhodes is only a lab hand at some research facility. If they press information for more, she only deflects them with scientific jargon they don't understand.

It had been the only thing she ever chose to keep to herself like that, her way of reminding herself that she had grown up. She has something her family can't touch. Can't judge, or give well-meaning advice about, or compare to _Penny, the one you used to have sleepovers with, she's a super-model now, you know_. No. Her career is something entirely her own. Even now, it feels liberating.

"By the by, how is…Elaine, was it? How is she doing?"

It takes a moment for Rhodes to honestly recall who Elaine even is, or that they've only just called it quits within the month.

"She's well."

And she probably is, considering her reason for breaking it off with Rhodes was because she accepted a long-term job offer in Qatar.

Her mother is sharp enough to notice the pause, unfortunately. "Is that so?"

"She's _well_, Mum."

"You know the reason they don't call, the reason they're good," her mother says so unexpectedly that Rhodes is too stunned to interrupt, "is because they're able to tell when a relationship won't work out, dear. They move aside so the better ones can fill in."

_I didn't say anything,_ Rhodes wants to snap. _Why are you telling me this?_ Along with _You don't know what happened_ and _So you're saying I'm not better or even good, then?_

Instead she ends the conversation with "Love you, Mum" and hangs up.

The conversation stays with her, though, and she lies livid in the dark, with her nerves all bundled and a loud pulsation in her ears as she replays the words in her head and gets even more riled. Until Holiday half-awakes, curls an arm around her midriff, and pulls her close, warm and snug.

**01100001**

Bouvier has a tendency to flirt. But his love for women is no comparison for the love he has for himself.

Volkov, on the other hand, seems to lack the ability entirely.

It's a quirky sort of team to be isolated in outer space with. "Any department head" Holiday reminds, and Rhodes finds herself realising they were only two people away from being secluded as a pair. Sometimes, Holiday will glance over her a certain way as if she wishes the same thing.

It's not unpleasant, though; they're all professional and all in the same situation. Everyone is still in the process of getting familiar with one another, trying to discover a working dynamic in which they can respect each other, at the same time hold their ground on how they prefer to get things done.

"…though, I'm sure Bouvier would, since you both get along," Holiday murmurs.

And Rhodes has to pull away and stare. "I'm sorry. What?"

This is how they're "taking inventory": mouths on each other's bodies, hands running over each other's uniforms. And the last thing on Rhodes's mind when Holiday's on her like _this_ is Bouvier.

Holiday realises her folly and immediately begins trying to right it. But she can't take back what's already been said. So instead she shrugs, and puts on a nonchalant air. "He likes you." At Rhodes's expectant look, she adds, "He likes talking about himself to you the most."

"Don't worry." Rhodes tries very hard not to smile to widely. "You don't sound jealous at all."

She takes the moment of Holiday's bewilderment to unzip the other woman's suit, eyes drifting to her brassiere and panties. Black and practical. And why anything else? Rhodes herself usually dons nude-coloured underwear.

So she's a bit embarrassed when her own suit is unzipped, her scarlet lace revealed. But it's worth it the way Holiday falls silent except for an low intake of breath, the way her eyes seem to darken.

"Feeling a bit risque, I see," Holiday whispers close to the other woman's ear. "Doctor Rhodes, what exactly were you planning, bringing such suggestive lingerie on a trip to space?"

"I suppose you hate it," Rhodes sighs, trying not to snigger at the look on Holiday's face when she pushes away and begins zipping her suit back up. "I should consult Bouvier for his opinion, then."

Holiday's hands are on her immediately, pulling her back down, and pulling herself over. It's as if a floodgate is open, releasing an unyielding current of tongue, clutch, lips, and wave after wave of force and heat. And once they're finished, Rhodes laughs breathlessly at her for it. After a while of protesting against any notions of jealousy, Holiday gives in and laughs, too- warm girlish giggles against Rhodes's forehead.

Like that, a week passes by quickly. Turns out, that's all the time it takes for four strangers in isolation to grow on each other.

Volkov's cynicism turns out to be a lovable trait in that he says what everyone else wants to, or at least would like to if they had such acerbic wit. Bouvier, even, though no less obnoxious, proves he's actually quite brilliant. His code is remarkable, and he only allows them use of parts of his top secret code, feeding it to them in fragments.

Rhodes is surprised how much Holiday likes to drag her off. Likes to pair the men and women separate and then move on Rhodes like she's been starving for it all her life. Sometimes, her gaze is unfocused, though. Sometimes, when she cries out, her lips form a hiss, before stuttering and correcting themselves to say "Rhodes".

One night finds the pair floating in a mock lying position, naked, and in loose embrace just above Holiday's bunk, while Volkov and Bouvier are trying to figure out what went wrong with the gravity simulator (because Holiday and Rhodes didn't have anything to do with that, especially not from interest in what midair sex is like).

Rhodes believes there is perfection in the dip of Holiday's waist, the line of her breasts that slope from her chest and curve back to her ribcage. How her hipbone calls dainty shadows to its shape.

Each day, each trial of new code, each experimental nanite brings them closer to a solution than they ever expected to reach. It brings them closer to the end. It brings Rhodes and Holiday closer to distance. So Rhodes asks tonight, while her arms and heart are still full, and while she has time to sort things out. She's not a teenager anymore; she has a life, a career, and her dignity at stake if she plays things by ear.

"Are you cheating on someone?"

"No." The answer comes in ease.

But Rhodes has a follow-up ready. "You've fallen for them, though. Haven't you?"

This time, Holiday pauses. Then, "We don't have to talk about this now, do we?" Her thumb runs a gentle circle atop Rhodes's shoulder. _Please don't._

Rhodes presses a kiss to her collarbone, and Holiday sighs and twines their legs. There are no more questions after that. Sometimes, a lack of answers tells more than answers themselves.

From here, it's learned that even Holiday pines. Just not for Rhodes.

Though, as long as they remain in the space station, it might as well be.

**01111001**

Holiday never asks for another name. Never offers her own. Rhodes responds in likewise fashion.

**01100110**

Hell breaks loose in the form of a cognizant A.I. program.

None of them are strangers to life-or-death emergencies, though, courtesy of their employer.

From the start, Holiday takes firm charge, using that firm, no-nonsense voice she uses especially for high-stress situations, because she thinks it's the only way she can get anyone to listen to her. But Rhodes listens no matter what. She feels that she always will, no matter what tone Holiday utilises. She'd never tell anyone, too, because she knows it's pathetic, and at the same time, her heart patters in the loveliest way at the thought. It's accompanied with the fragile wish of _maybe_.

That's why, when Holiday asks for support to shut down the station's power, and Bouvier is in too much disbelief to function, and Volkov looks as if he doesn't even want to try- that's why Rhodes volunteers herself.

Holiday looks at her like she's about to refuse, but there's no time for that.

Yet.

In the end,

she can't do anything.

The doors open and Rhodes shrieks as she's plucked off her feet, straight from the station. As she tumbles away into a zero-gravity vacuum, she spots the door sliding back shut. In a movie, that might have served as a sign that things aren't meant to be after all.

**01101111**

_"Just checking that it's secure," Holiday explains. She has her hands around the latch of Rhodes's space helmet, avoiding the woman's stare._

_"It's alright," Rhodes tells her. "You don't have to." And when she says it, she hopes Holiday pieces it to more than just the helmet._

_The station lurches again, throwing them against each other, against the wall. Holiday's arms come up around her and squeeze her tightly. When Rhodes looks up, Holiday's listening intently to a transmission on her earpiece, the sound coming across to anyone else as unintelligible buzzing._

_"Roger that," Holiday finally responds, and her arm stiffens around Rhodes's waist. "Affirmative. Doctor Rhodes and I are on the move."_

_The buzzing stops and she finally meets Rhodes's gaze and doesn't say anything._

_But Rhodes understands. In the end, it's Holiday who leads the sprint down the cooridor, but it's Rhodes who had stepped away in first. After a while, she decides that she actually doesn't feel as used as she is. She feels…better…than that, somehow._

**01110010**

Four minutes, twenty-seven seconds.

Rhodes manages to stop, or at least substantially slow her drift with the help of some atmospheric debris. As far as she's able to discern, anyway. The entire time, the first law of Newton never stops repeating itself in her mind, running through first with the font of the first time she ever read it in text book, in the curvy scrawl of her grade school science teacher's handwriting, in the large rounded letters on a poster an ex got her as a gag anniversary gift…. Though, when she comes to rest, it takes a while for her body to do the same.

Seven minutes, thirteen seconds.

Rhodes is able to calm her breathing and her heart and the flurry of panic derailing any possible logic from making through. Earlier, she thought she saw a capsule leaving the station, only to crash and flicker, and eventually glide slowly towards the great black- but even that is shoved to back of her mind in favour of her own survival.

It takes her a while, but she finally musters up the courage to see if her suit's comm link still works. She clings to the past feel of Holiday's arms around her, and not that it may have been the last bit of warmth she'll ever feel. And holds her breath.

"Agent Six here," comes a response, and Rhodes has to bite her lip and breathe a while so she doesn't break down and bawl like an infant. To her silence, the voice comes again: "Agent Six. Go ahead."

"Yes, this is Doctor Rhodes," she finally manages. "I've just been thrown from the station, beyond proximity. It's still headed for Earth."

"Understood. Standby."

Rhodes exhales, only now realising how much breath she'd been holding.

Then, a new voice on the transmission frequency: "Doctor Rhodes, this is White Knight."

"Copy."

"We've locked onto your signal. We'll be able to dispatch rescue once we sort out this mess with ZAG-RS. Pray that your oxygen lasts out until then."

Rhodes doesn't skip a beat. "Yes, sir."

The static fizzles out as the transmission is dropped. She stops glacing over at the vessel that may very well be holding one of her teammates. She doesn't revisit _what if_s or _hopefully_s. There's only _if that should happen, then_s. Action and reaction. Is and isn't. Though admittedly, the same strategy of thought-manipulation hasn't worked out quite so well in the context of Doctor Holiday.

Rhodes keeps herself facing the Earth, taking comfort in its serene blue glow. In how near it is, even if it's far off enough that she can form a circle around it with her fingers and thumbs. The way she's positioned, she'd be considered upside-down compared to how the planet is depicted on maps. But it doesn't feel like it. It doesn't feel like much at all, actually. It's just nothing.

Surrounded in nothing.

Apart of nothing.

Becoming nothing.

The only thing that reminds her she's still there is the sound of her own breathing, in and then out. Wispy and brittle. Deafening aside itself.

She wonders if this is what limbo is like.

Rhodes thinks on her father. He spends most his time nowadays plopped in his favourite chair. In the mornings, he'll be annotating the latest tome he's bought from the used bookstore. In the afternoons, he'll be watching the most boring documentary on the tele. It should be evening around this time where they are now, so he must be taking his nightly walk around the neighborhood.

Then, she thinks about her older brother, who got kicked out when he got more and more involved in his football firm- the one night he came back just to sneak in through her window and hug her. She'd been fourteen at the time, and later in life, when he made amends with the family, she would learn that had been the night two of his mates died in a confrontation.

Then, there's her dear mother. Her mum. And Rhodes is surprised to find herself speaking the word aloud.

If she dies now, they would find out all about her job at Providence. Rhodes knows the news will come in a typed, impersonal note, folded neat in a white envelope. It will state her time of death. It will tell them her rank, and give them a number to call to coordinate a pickup for her body if there are remains, as well as for her belongings. She, herself, has written, signed, and sent plenty of letters like it. Has funneled the heartbroken phonecalls.

Eventually, she runs out of thoughts. There's only her, a lone spec in the horrifying, amazing, vast, vast expanse of space.

And ever still perseveres the memory of how Holiday always traces Rhodes's jawline with steady fingers and smiles each time before proceeding with a kiss.

**01100101**

Upon awakening, Rhodes realises the world actually has not ended, and also that she's alive. She finds herself more relieved that her family won't find out about her day job; Providence has a way of desensitising a person like that.

She's surprised to be visited by Volkov. He gives her a balloon as a get-well, and it makes her snort. They fall back on formalities, shaking hands, telling each other it was pleasure to meet and cooperate and that they look forward to working with one another in the future, if it should happen. She's unsure if Volkov is sincere, but she means her word, at least.

Through process of elimination, she's able to figure out who it was she saw drifting out into space, since Holiday was no where near that area of the ship when it happened. It chills her to think of Bouvier. That he's still alive, far away and floating farther alone, nothing to him except to wait on death. She could have been like him.

Holiday brings flowers. A bunch precomposed in a round beige pot. Among the blossoms, there's a card with golden metallic calligraphy that reads _Feel Better_. She makes small-talk, and then goes on to confirm that Bouvier was never recovered, and then about how Providence sent the Weapon up by space elevator, and how that seemed to have made all the difference.

There are a few moments when she looks like she might reach out, but she never does. And neither will Rhodes. They're not a couple, and this is goodbye.

"I left my number on the card," Holiday reveals, and Rhodes has to fight her first instinct to reach for it. "My personal line. Feel free to call whenever."

They don't kiss passionately, or hold each other one last time, or even lock gazes for a meaningful prolonged moment. There's only a brief exchange of smiles, and then she's gone. That's how real life works.

It may not be the final time they'll ever speak, but Rhodes sees it as a definitive conclusion to it all. What little of it there was. And she still doesn't understand the mirth her mum so openly sampled when privileged to another tale of unsuccess in her only daughter's love life, but she won't treat the woman to another good laugh; this will be the second thing she'll ever keep to herself.

Even if this time, she's the one who doesn't call Holiday.

**01110110**

It's Valentines Day when Rhodes receives a bouquet at her office, anonymously sent. She hasn't been with anyone in the past half year, but a name flashes up bright as fire in her memory.

Apple-green eyes.

Lips coloured burgundy, curving subtly into a smirk.

Dark hair falling in kinked locks upon smooth, steadfast shoulders.

She thinks she's got the number in her drawer somewhere- or, actually, maybe she can recall it by heart, but was it the zero before the three or the other way around? Rhodes has the phone to her ear, ready for some trial and error, but hesitates a while as her thumb hovers over the keypad.

In the end, she dials her parents' home instead.

"How are you?" her mother asks.

Rhodes tilts an orange rose to her lips and discovers herself smiling. "Good."

**011001010110111001100100**


End file.
